Finding Raven
by shinytinfoil
Summary: They called her Mistique. It was a good name; she'd chosen it herself. It was an alluring name to fit with the alluring persona she'd built up...
1. Mistique

I know, I know. I have other stories to work on. But my computer (literally) broke, and we had to buy a new one, which means I have lost EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY STORIES! I copied them from the site, but it takes a while for a muse to recover from a hit like that.  
  
I was watching X2 for the ten bagillionth time, and I decided that Mistique just might be more multi-faceted than we think. This is just a little train-of-thought type thing, ending with a bit of fluff, but reviews are appreciated.  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
They called her Mistique.  
  
It was a good name; she'd chosen it herself. On her surface thoughts, that was the title she called herself by, and when she talked in third person, it was who she was. It was an alluring name to fit with the alluring persona she'd built up, the cold-hearted facade that was so convincing she half-believed it herself sometimes.  
  
Mistique was how she fought, smooth and crisp and effortlessly exact. Mistique was how she spoke, in that echoing voice that was, somehow, not a voice. Mistique was in the way she watched 'normal' humans as they walked down the street, slightly depreciating and not without a hint of malice. Mistique was in the way she toyed with people, using her powers to shamelessly illicit responses that Mistique found amusing. Mistique was in the way she drawled out Magneto's real first name- she was the only member of the Brotherhood who dared. Mistique was in the way she stared coldly at underlings, younger mutants who thought that they, perheps, were better than her.  
  
Raven Darkholme was in none of these things. She was hard-put to find anything Raven was in, these days, and when she did find something, her defenses, so carefully built up, would quickly smother Raven with Mistique. A genuine, caring smile would be replaced by the bitter, cynical smile most had come to recognize as her own. It wasn't hers. It was just another change, so quickly put on just as any other skin she wore. They thought that when she was in her true form, that was when her expressions, at least, were real. She wondered where they'd gotten that impression.  
  
Then she stopped wondering; she knew. She'd given it to them. Raven hated herself for it, then Mistique told herself to stop being such a softy. Sighing, Raven gave in, as she always did. Mistique was tough, a spirit unbreakable. Even she feared her, and yet, like Doctor Frankenstein, she'd created her. The world was a harsh, unforgiving place, and Mistique dressed accordingly.  
  
She was invincible, mentally and physically.  
  
No, not quite. There was one who matched her, possibly even surpassed her. Even the thought of him sent shivers down Raven's back, and a wave of remembered pain into Mistique's stomach. Wolverine, Mistique whispered fiercely, blood hot with revenge. Logan, Raven whispered even more softly, and even then, Mistique pounced on the thought. But she, the warrior, the shield, couldn't erase it.  
  
He'd lived as long as she had. Perheps longer. But he didn't remember it. She envied him and felt superior to him at the same time.   
  
What if she forgot the past century? What if all of the pain and loss and bias was erased, like a disk with a magnet against it? Would Mistique cease to exist, because it was those things that had created the need for her? Or would forgetting all those very- sickeningly, Mistique corrected- human emotions mean that she forgot what it was to be Raven, to be some semblance of human? Was Logan- Wolverine! she corrected so fiercely that she almost spoke it aloud- less human because he couldn't remember why he was the way he was? He just WAS- wild, feral, elemental, completely guided by instincts he didn't understand more than half the time. Even Mistique had to acknowledge the raw beauty of it, the ruthless way he fought against much larger opponents and won, the fire that bloomed hatred and frustration and some other unnameable emotion in his eyes. If she had to hazard a guess, some gut feeling told her it was longing.  
  
Mistique was the only one who'd guessed how very little human emotion went into what he did. Even his volatile attraction to Jean Grey- the late Jean Grey, Mistique smirked maliciously- had no roots in his emotions, other than lust, if that could be counted an emotion.   
  
She'd come to him in that guise, that of the stick-thin, red-headed telekine with a slight Russian cast to her features, and even as he had hungrily accepted the kiss and the offer of more, she knew that he didn't really want anything past the skin, the flesh. His emotions didn't twitch, and even though she was no telepath, she knew that with a certainty that surprised her. He didn't love Jean Grey. He didn't remember how.  
  
Raven did. Mistique just fought tooth and nail to keep her from doing it. When Raven wanted to cry, really pound and sob and carry on in anguish at being so cold, Mistique forced her jaw tighter, her eyes narrower, her spine straighter.  
  
With a resilience that bordered on extraordinary, Raven forced her way through at times. When she'd spoken with Nightcrawler, that night before she'd visited Lo- Wolverine. For an instant, the pain in his eyes at his very own appearance had shattered Mistique, and Raven rose from the ashes like a pheonix from it's pyre. She hadn't told him the truth, of why she stayed in her true form all of the time, but she'd told him what he needed to hear, and it was truer than she'd like to admit. Nightcrawler shouldn't have to hide who he was, because he had nothing beyond the surface to hide. Mistique had too much, and she'd always have to hide, if only from herself.  
  
The way Logan hid behind his aggression.   
  
Why did her mind keep returning to him? Mistique had pounded those thoughts into the smallest corner of her mind. Raven had let them out again, without even meaning to. Dammit.  
  
The quaint little bell hanging on the door of the quaint little cafe jangled loudly, interrupting her internal battle, but not for long. Entering the cafe was the very same stocky Canadian she'd been musing about. Quickly, she averted her eyes, which, at the moment, were the baby blue of the skin she'd used to seduce Vincent Laurio, the guard at Eric's prison. It was a good skin for eating breakfast in a small cafe in New York; no one looked too closely, because the skin- for laughs, Mistique called this one Rebecca- was so damn attractive that it dazed them, just a bit. It was so different from her true skin, and this Rebecca was what was wanted by society.  
  
She didn't have to watch to know that Wolverine was studying the room with more than just his eyes. She could hear his nostrils sucking in air as he cast his heightened senses around the room, but more importantly, she knew that kind of hesitation. She used it herself all the time. You stop, pretending to look unsure about where you're supposed to be, when really you're making sure everything and everyone in the room is safe. Living a mutant existence for more than a century did nothing if not put you on edge, and any indescrepancies would be instantly identified.  
  
So she wasn't surprised when his feet clunked heavily over to her booth. Slowly dragging her eyes away from the window, she gave him a negligent look. "Can I help you?"  
  
"What are you doing here, Mistique?" he growled, not loud enough to catch the attention of the other diners, but menacing enough to get her hackles up, and she had to concentrate briefly to keep from shedding her blond haired, blue eyed skin.   
  
Of course, he saw none of this, for by then her eyes had returned to the window, following an amused smirk. "Watching them."  
  
She was vaguely surprised when he slid into the booth opposite her, but realized that it was so they wouldn't attract attention. "Who?"  
  
She smiled briefly, meaninglessly, at the waitress who appeared to refill her coffee cup and offer Wolverine a menu, which he declined in favor of a cup of coffee, then stirred as she gazed out the window, avoiding eye contact. "All of them. Wondering how many know the truth, and how many just accept what the tv tells them."  
  
"About us?" Wolverine asked, winking at the returning waitress, who giggled and managed to brush her front against his arm as she turned to walk away.  
  
"What else?" she said, sighing and watching a boy riding on his father's shoulders. She'd done that with her father once, so long ago. Longer than she liked to think about. The silence stretched out, until finally she broke down and glanced at him. "So what are you doing here?"  
  
He coughed slightly. "Ah, well. I'm supposed to be supervising a shopping trip."  
  
She chuckled briefly at that imagery. "Let me guess. You and Saks Fifth Avenue really don't get along."  
  
"Especially not with four teenage girls in tow. Jubilee suggested that I, ah, take myself elsewhere." He stared bemusedly into his coffee, then glanced back up. "Who are you supposed to look like?"  
  
She shrugged. "Nobody. Just something I invented." She cleared her throat. "This is as close to what I would have looked like as I can get." Furious, Mistique pounded mentally on Raven for allowing that to slip out.  
  
Wolverine studied her for a moment, and she tilted her chin up slightly. She would NOT be a blushing, retreating person. She could take a direct look. Finally he nodded. "I can see that, maybe. So," he stuck out a hand. "My name's Logan."  
  
She blinked, startled, and shook his hand. "Raven Darkholme."  
  
He nodded acceptance, then returned to his coffee. "No offense, but you look better blue."  
  
She laughed quietly. "I think so. But I doubt I'd be able to drink my coffee in peace looking like that."  
  
He nodded again. "I hear that. Or does that mean you want me to go?"  
  
She shook her head slowly. "S'ok. You can stay if you want, but I'm not paying for your coffee."  
  
Wolverine-Logan smiled. "Right. Anything to keep me out of the junior petites department."  
  
Mistique-Raven shrugged. "It doesn't really matter to me."  
  
But they were both lying. And deep down, they both knew it.  
  
------------------------------------------------------  
  
------------------------------------------------------  
  
Review, dudes and dudettes! 


	2. Wolverine

I wasn't sure if I was going to post this. But your reviews have been marvelous, so I thought I'd see what you thought of it.  
  
I know it's really Mystique. But I like Mistique better, so that's what I'm using. As in La Femme...   
  
------------------------------------------------------  
  
------------------------------------------------------  
  
His name was Logan.  
  
At least, he thought it was. He would never be too sure about it.  
  
His other name was Wolverine. That one, he was sure about. Every time an opponent said it, some triumphant part of him acknowledged the name. He was the Wolverine. Sure, he was small, but he would fight tooth, nail and claw, and he'd win. Every time, he'd win.  
  
Logan, on the other hand, was a persona that could never seem to win. Logan was the emotional part of him. Logan was the actions that were fueled by more than blind rage.   
  
Problem was, blind rage was the only thing that seemed to work for him. The only thing that got him what he wanted. He'd tried other ways; they never worked. Look at Mariko. Look at Jean. He'd wanted them, but they were things he couldn't win with rage. He'd needed his emotions for them.   
  
His emotions. Internally, Logan sighed. His emotions were confusing at best. Logan himself didn't understand them; how could he expect a woman to? Even Jean couldn't fathom them, and she was- had been- a telepath.  
  
That 'had been' didn't wound him as much as he thought it should. He hadn't loved her; at the time, he'd thought he'd love her forever. Had he been lying to himself? Or had his feelings been an echo of something else, some other emotion?  
  
Some other woman?  
  
The thought had never occured to him before, but a face swam into his mind, a beautiful face framed by long locks of a tantilizing red. Then it was gone, like all the other things he thought he remembered. It was as if something in his mind cut off those memories, kept them from resurfacing past a brief, teasing flash. It made him angry. No, it made him furious. But this was another one of those things that rage couldn't fix.  
  
For a moment today, he'd thought he'd found someone who understood. Someone who knew what it was to move through days, months, years, without anyone knowing who you really were. The feeling, that acceptance, had caught him off guard, and he'd let his shields down just the slightest bit. He hadn't let his shields down in years, and he'd thought it would be hard. But down they had come, as smoothly as his adamantium claws as they slid back into his forearms. It was just a matter of relaxing.  
  
What about Mistique made him relax? If anything, her presense should put him on edge; she was considered X-men enemy number two, and she was a formidable opponent, with or without Magneto directing her movements. But something within him responded to the same thing within her, something world-weary and tired, something frustrated with life. Something that, sometimes, wished it all would end.  
  
He'd tried to commit suicide before. No one, maybe not even Xavier, knew how close he came to trying again sometimes. When the anger and rage and frustration and longing- yes, longing- became to much for him to handle. No one knew what that was like. Except Mistique. He had seen it in her eyes today. There was a difference between them, though. She could die.   
  
Could he? The jury was still out on that one.  
  
He wondered what stopped her. Loyalty? No, something told him she stayed with Magneto because he didn't ask questions, simply facilitated the anger that she had to work out. She stayed with Magneto because it was easy.  
  
Pride? That seemed right, but that wasn't the only thing. She was proud, in a way Logan wouldn't have expected. She was proud of the way she was. She saw the beauty in her true form, even if no one else saw past the alien feel of it. But there was also hope.  
  
Hope had died in Logan a long time ago. That Mistique had held onto hers was remarkable.  
  
He wondered how old she was. In her true form, her looks suggested mid-thirties, old enough to be so cynical and yet young enough to be considered in her prime. But who really knew? Those who made eye contact- and Logan guessed that those were few and far between- could see the years- so many years it was eerie- hidden in those ever-changing depths, a pain that a shapechange couldn't fix. A heart held together with Scotch tape, yet still stubbornly beating.  
  
She was someone he could admire. Someone he could trust.   
  
She was supposed to be the enemy. But, somehow, Logan wasn't so sure.  
  
And, for some reason, being unsure didn't scare him as much as he thought it should.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
Review, please. 


	3. Mistique

Here goes, after a long, CSI-centric break from X-men, this chapter is up. The next one will be posted tomorrow, if I get reviews.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
She told herself that she wasn't there for him.  
  
She was lying to herself, of course. It wasn't as easy as lying to strangers, and yet it was something that had become second nature. It a habit, to lie. No, more than a habit. It was a survival technique. She was good at it.  
  
So when she told herself that she wasn't at the cafe on the off chance that he might show up again, she almost believed it. After all, she had come here many times before yesterday. Yesterday changed nothing.  
  
She was wearing the same skin again- she liked it. Liked the open-mouthed stares she got as they stared at what they couldn't have. It gave Mistique a sort of grim satisfaction, in knowing that she could elict those kind of responses. But it only seemed to emphasize her loneliness.  
  
No. She wasn't lonely. Mistique would never be lonely.  
  
Raven *was* lonely. But that wasn't why she was here. If, and only if, she was lonely, she would buy a dog or something else that fit with the sickening "American dream." She had a sudden vision of Eric's reaction if she brought a puppy back to the Island, and a brief, genuinely amused smile crossed her features, quickly supressed back into the bored, Victoria's Secret model pout she had decided suited this skin as it didn't her own form. She stared into her coffee cup faux-mournfully, amused at her own acting skills.  
  
The bell on the door jangled, and her neck muscles tightened spasmically for the hundreth time as she forced herself not to look up. Not to look desperate.  
  
There was no hesitation this time as the metal-heavy footsteps that were becoming familiar clunked their way over to her booth. It was a different booth; she'd done that on purpose. Her nose inhaled the mixture of heady, wilderness scents that made up his distinct aura, so out of place in the city, as he slid into the booth without saying a word. The waitress brought him a cup of coffee, and it was a few minutes before he spoke.  
  
"You're slipping," he stated, taking a sip of his coffee.  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "How so?" Idly, pretending indifference as hard as she could, she shifted her weight, uncrossing and recrossing her ankles. If her toe brushed against his shin, she didn't notice.  
  
He swallowed before replying. "You look the same as you did yesterday."  
  
She shrugged as the waitress returned to refill both mugs and blink flirtatiously at Wolverine. "I changed clothes," she drawled, biting the inside of her cheek to force down a smile as Wolverine didn't even give the waitress a second glance.  
  
"You know what I mean," he half-growled, giving her an annoyed look.  
  
She hummed an affirmative, allowing a slight smile to touch the corners of her mouth. "This skin is one of the regulars here. Every weekday morning. They think I'm a model. I've signed autographs."  
  
To her surprise, he chuckled. "Figures."  
  
"What does?" she asked, wondering if she should get herself ready to act offended.  
  
"That when you play incognito, you do it wearing a skin that attracts attention."  
  
She glanced down at her perfectly sculpted (literally) curves, emphasized by the form-fitting black dress she wore, then back up. "You like it?" she asked, forcing contempt and arrogance into her tone. As if she was amused by his admition. You can have it, Raven thought suddenly, quietly but with every ounce of her mind, shocking herself and positively infuriating Mistique. Where was her quiet, inner self finding this courage?  
  
He shrugged. "I think you look better blue." Yes, he'd said that yesterday. But she hadn't taken it seriously. Should she? Part of her did, and it was only through the severest control of her skin that she didn't blush at the praise.  
  
"Most don't," she admitted casually. Like she didn't care. Like she didn't notice their revulsion, and like it didn't hurt her. Of course it didn't. Mistique didn't care about what others thought.  
  
So why did one little sentence of praise make her entire day?  
  
He chuckled again. She could come to like that sound. She gave herself a little mental shake. She had to stop being so silly. So weak. Remember what happens when you get weak? Mistique whispered dangerously.  
  
Oh, Raven didn't care.  
  
"Yeah, well. Most people don't get me very well either," he said, shifting his weight, and that time, she definately noticed that their shins collided, though the contact was fleeting enough.  
  
She cocked her head at him. Was he relaxing? The other times she'd been herself around him, during that mission to Alkali mostly, he'd been tense, his back ramrod straight, his muscles tightened to their limit. But he was definately slouching a bit now, not in a tired way, and the hand that wasn't curled around his coffee cup was idly describing circles on the tabletop.  
  
"I should apologize," Raven found herself saying, quietly. She looked up to meet his eyes. "For Alkali. Jean Grey. We never..." She paused, then corrected herself. "I never meant for that to happen."  
  
His brow had creased slightly at her tone, which she had to admit was a bit more sincere-sounding than the one she normally employed. For a moment, there was an expression in his eyes that she couldn't name, one that made her elated and terrified at the same time, then he chuckled. "What?" she asked, annoyed that he hadn't taken her moment of honesty seriously.  
  
"You're not so bad," he accused, smirking at her.  
  
She smiled and made an amused noise. Subtly darkening her eye color to navy, she gave him a sidelong glance. "I'm plenty bad," she drawled, allowing her eyes to flash their true, brilliant yellow color. Then she chuckled, too.   
  
Yesterday changed everything.  
  
----------------------------------------------------------  
  
----------------------------------------------------------  
  
Let me know, people. 


End file.
